


Fleeted

by kayforpay



Category: Hiveswap, Hiveswap: Friendsim - Fandom, Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Post-Ascension, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, fleetfic, pegging kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 07:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayforpay/pseuds/kayforpay
Summary: Ascension was bound to be a fucking mess, and it doesn't help that you seem to have every teal you've ever met besides your girlfriend on-board with you. Tagora, as expected, is being about three times as much of a jackass as usually, and you chalk it up to him being bored.





	Fleeted

When the time came for you to ascend, you hoped you would be able to avoid the teals you’ve been talking to for sweeps on Alternia. Some of them are fine, sure, and you’ll even keep Gryping them, but you don’t want to physically face them constantly, in a closed environment like a ship, if you don’t have to. Your claustrophobia, the fact that you didn’t get to avoid all the teals you know, and to top it off a cerulean blockmate who complains about who they got stuck rooming with almost as much as you do.

The fleet sucks just about as much as you thought it would. Maybe a little more, which is moderately exciting. You’ve had to get even sneakier with your documents, writing them in code and hiding the pages in different books. It’s really a pain, but someone has to secretly plot the rebuilding of the justice system from the ground up, and apparently that somebody is you. It’s just such a huge pain. You mean, you want to do it and it’s a good thing to do, probably, but it still sucks to actually have to put the work in.

Your setup on the ship currently is actually pretty choice, considering what you could have gotten (you’ve heard all about it from Tirona, no thanks), but it’s not nearly as comfortable as you’d like. For instance, you have to share a block. The  concupiscence blocks are communal, for the worst possible reasons you can imagine, your office is smaller and more cramped than the one on Alternia. Like, you survived, and that’s great, but you’re exhausted.

Well, you already were exhausted, but now it’s in space.

Space, which is, depressingly, pretty fucking boring. From this perspective, you can’t really even see the stars all that well, and there are probably thirty windows on the entire vessel of 15,000 some trolls, not including the engine and the auxilary engine, and probably a handful of stowaways. The lack of windows is a safety thing, you’re sure, but it’s still annoying to only have walls to look at. Or other trolls, but you’ve seen that shit before.

Your work for the trip is basically paralegal for the established lawyers on the planet, going through their files and organizing them to make them easier to work. It’s not what you’d prefer to be working on, after all those sweeps in school, but you’ll deal. It isn’t like you have a choice, firstly, and secondly you’re in no mood to try and take on more work. The office is monitored, cramped, and smells kind of musty no matter how many scented candles you burn or air fresheners you requisition from the janitorial closet, but it’s home. You can spend as long as you want or need in it, and you found all the cameras to block them with strategic piles of books, so you can even do your illegal work here too.

So that’s all pretty cool. You’re busy, tired, overwhelmed, exhausted, and, unfortunately, you know one of the other teals on your ship. You know him better than you want to, with his stupid swoopy hair and perfectly styled cowlick and perfect outfits and glittery cheekbones. You wish you could say you could avoid him, but he’s blocking on the same hall as you, as well as being three doors down for his office.

You’ve actually had to see him more here than you did on-planet. It’s like the ordeals all over again, his smug grin parading up and down the hall and poking into your office, like he’s just trying to piss you off. He might be, he’d probably enjoy seeing you get that worked up. He might even get off on it, for all you know. He’s that smug.

But all in all, despite your many, many complaints about ascension (leaving behind Stelsa, for instance, and being in a closed environment with Tagora), it's been pretty good. Not ideal, obviously, you still don't get enough sleep, you're in space, you have all the credentials of a lawyer and none of the power, but it's been pretty good. You could have done a lot worse, anyway.

You could have been culled, even!

None of that matters now, though. Now, it's fifteen minutes before your shift, you're dead tired, and there's a stupid cowlick and pinstriped pants (those are  _ not  _ regulation) in front of your face, and a uniform-defiant pair of slacks sticking out where someone is bent over in front of the coffee machine. You can let a lot slide. You do, in fact, let a lot slide. You're not aggressive or even passive aggressive; you're passive to a fault.

But this is the third time in as many sleep cycles that he's blocked your way to the machine. The third. And yeah, there's another one, but it's on the highblood deck and no one ever refills it. You're the only one who refills this one, in fact. Tagora hums, tossing his bangs to one side and then the other. You clear your throat, and kick the back of his foot with your toe.

“Just a minute, Tyzzie.” He purrs, not even looking up. Your schedules are too fucking synced for your liking. There's no way he gets that hair done up in the same time you manage to put on pants. It's unnatural. “I like to enjoy my first cup at the machine. The smell of percolating coffee is so invigorating.”

You rub your eyes, and then fix your glasses. Tagora takes a long, slow sip. “Move aside, Gor-Gor. I have shit to do.” You kick the back of his foot again. Hopefully his dumb shiny shoes will scuff. Bastard. He wiggles his ass again, acting like he doesn’t even notice you. “Tagora.”

“I said, just a minute,  _ Tyzias.  _ Calm down.” He sways again, his vest pulling up and showing his lower back a little under his shirt. It’s gonna bunch up when he stands upright again. “Or. You can pay me. If you’re that desperate.”

Ah, of course. This bullshit. You should have known you’d never escape this stuff. You’re cosmically doomed to be stuck around him, forever. “God. How much.” You don’t care. Whatever gets him the fuck out of the way, you don’t care anymore.

Tagora hems and haws, turning to lean against the table and look at you over his mug, smiling smugly and holding it in both hands. Oh, he’s a bastard. He’s  _ the _ bastard. You’re going to slap the shit out of him, you’re going to destroy his smug grin you’re.. No. Calm. Getting worked up will only egg him on more. Be calm, Tyzias. You know better. God, but his smile is so fucking weasely. You  _ want  _ to hit him. You want to slap him right across the face, shove him to his knees, use those horns as handles, open his pretty mouth and--

Whoa. Wow, where did that come from? Jeez. You really need to calm down. He’s still smirking, sipping his coffee for another long second. “Two hundred caegers.” His lips pull back in a grin, his eyes narrowing, and you take a long, slow breath.

“I don’t have that. You know I don’t have that. Move aside, Gor-Gor.” His perfectly-plucked eyebrow shoots up, and his grin gets wider. He doesn’t move. “Tagora. Come on. I have to get to work. Don’t be like this. For fucking once don’t be like this. Please.”

He rolls his eyes, takes another long sip, and finally steps to the side. You can feel his eyes on you while you pour your own coffee, and you wonder what he has to say about your looks tonight. Today? Space time is fake. All time is, but you mean, it feels even more fake. Sometimes it feels like weeks between running into him, and sometimes you can’t avoid him no matter how hard you try to, and then it’s been three hours and you’ve seen him ten times. You have no idea how long you’ve been on the ship, and you’re not sure you’ll ever really get used to this.

Tagora sighs, and stalks off, the heels of his shoes clicking on the metal floor as he goes. You turn to watch him, sipping your coffee, and let your mind wander. Paperwork, obviously, is the first thing you think of. Then you think about his mouth, and the fact that you called it  _ pretty,  _ and from there to your office in a quick pace, you’re thinking about his mouth wrapped around you, his wrists tied behind his back, his hair messed up for once in his life. You think about shoving his face into the mattress, lifting his ass and telling him that he doesn’t even deserve to see you, calling him a slut.

You should be careful about this kind of stuff. If you’re not, you might go and develop feelings for him. Or at least let yourself get worked up and horny for him. Either way would be a complete fucking disaster, you’re sure. Better to just focus on work. Work, the most mind-numbing thing you can do. Perfect. No need to think about what kind of face he might pull if you yanked that idiotic little cowlick of his like a handle, or if you shoved him face-down onto the platform. What noise would he make if you--

No. Work. Numb. 

Better.

An unknowable amount of time passes with you staring at a screen, making notes here and there and organizing meaningless cases about property or whatever else highbloods like to piss and moan about. So-and-so stole ten inches of land. This-or-that was grown on my property. I had to see my ex’s face on my phone and I want to be repaid about it. All kinds of worthless wastes of the justice system’s time and money, that you have to sort through until you eventually die. Great. You’re so excited for the future now.

You're so sufficiently numbed by this work that you don't even spend more than maybe 45 minutes staring at the clock wishing you were dead, and then in through your door walks none other than the rat faced motherfucker himself, Gor-Gor. Even his fatigues look like they're tailored. He seems like he would do that, but who would tailor them? Him? You sigh when you see him, either way.

“What do you need?” You almost snap. Reign it in. “I’m working. Can you not see that?”

He shrugs. “Forgive me, Empress. I need to get the files on suit VRZZVCXY 55-369.88.” He recites the name. How does he memorize things so easily? It must be cheating. You swear he has to have it written on his hand, or something. “If you have the time to do your job and give me the files.” Tagora flips his head and his hair bounces.

“And you couldn’t email me?” You ask, standing to dig through your precarious piles of work and cover up the less than legal things you’ve been working on while you do. Tagora looks at his nails, taps his foot. God. “You had to waltz in and interrupt me? We have a pneumatic system for a reason, Gor-Gor.”

Tagora walks to the edge of your desk, his perfectly manicured hand stuck out and expectant. You’d spit in it if you didn’t have control of yourself. Instead, you slap it into his hand, glaring at him through your smudged glasses. He smiles that weasely smile of his.

“Thank you so much, Princess. I really am in your debt.” He steps back, and gives you a deep bow, the hand with his file stuck out to one side and the other crossed over his middle. “How could I possibly return this gracious boon, Princess Tyzias?”

You never understood the term “seeing red”. It makes no sense, right? Seeing a color because you’re mad? That doesn't make any sense. But now, with him standing up with that smug mouth and those eyes of his, you see  _ black.  _ You see spades like you've never imagined. Storybook spades that would leave you breathless if not for the sharp inhale you've just taken, that make your pusher flip and your lips pull back from your teeth. You don't want to improve him, compete with him, no. 

You want to fucking  _ break _ him.

His chest has a little softness, a little give when you push, and he stumbles back over his own feet, his horn clacking against the wall. You hope it hurts. You're close enough to smell the mints he ate when the air in him is knocked right out of his chest, his eyes all wide, and you snarl at him balling your fist up in his shirt to drag him down to your level and smash your forehead into his. You've never been this mad in your life. This anger is consuming, distracting, obsessive almost with needing to break him, make him beg.

Tagora shifts his legs together, and you smell it. He's wet, his pupils dilated and his mouth open, dusting pheromones that make you want to dig your claws into him. He must be pent up, waiting on that prettyboy blueblood of his to transfer in. Or he's just a glutton for punishment. Whichever it is, it snaps you out of it and you let his shirt go, stepping back with a sigh.

“Get out of my office, Tagora.” You say, forcing yourself not to snarl at him any more than you have. Calm, calm. That’s better. You step back a little more, and then turn away to talk to your seat again. “Close the door on your way out.”

You take your glasses off and start wiping them on the hem of your shirt as Tagora straightens up, smooths his shirt, and clears his throat. When you still don’t look up at him, even after he clears his throat again (you can smell him from here, he must be fucking desperate), he finally walks out of your office, and closes your door almost silently behind himself. Now that he’s gone, you huff out a breath, slouching against your desk.

Holy shit. You’re laughing before you even think about it, laughing hard into your arm and displacing your papers while you shake.  _ Holy fucking shit.  _ He got turned on by that. What a fucking moron, he got into it. He wanted you to keep going, that’s why he didn’t leave right away, he wanted you to keep pressing him against the wall. You bet he’d beg you to bite him. Fuck.

Fuck, you’re into it.

You finish your shift, and as you pass Tagora in the hall on the way back to your block, you knock into his shoulder, make him stumble to one side to give yourself more room than you need. He huffs, but you can feel his eyes on your back, but keep walking, calmly, until you reach a corner. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you lock your door behind you, leaning on the door. This should be fun. This should be really fun, for fucking once on this stupid goddamn fleet ship.

When you fall into the shallow coon assigned to you, you’re smiling. This is going to be great.

For the first time in, maybe, sweeps, you wake up feeling refreshed. Not fully awake, or rested, but better than when you went to sleep. You feel pretty good, is your point. Good enough that you manage to get to the coffee maker only just after Tagora has parked himself in front of it. Old tricks.

You stretch at the door, and he looks over at you, almost smiling. This is good. This is fun. You like being able to mess around with  _ someone  _ on this fucking hunk of metal. Everyone is too busy being professional to do anything remotely interesting, so even when you have any time to do anything besides sleep and work, you’re bored out of your pan, so doing this weird not-flirting flirting with Tagora is, you know, fucking  _ something.  _ Maybe nothing good, but it’s something to do.

“Three hundred.” No greeting tonight. He’s in that same position, leaning on his elbows watching the coffee drip into the pot with a smug smile on his face. “Cash, of course.”

You blink at him, slowly, and yawn into the back of your hand. “What time do you get up, Gor-Gor? Do you even fucking sleep?” The vague mesh of people talking around you makes you have to raise your voice to be heard, and even then he pretends he didn’t hear you, just flicking his hair and turning back to the counter. You bump his hip with your own, but he doesn’t move, only glares over his shoulder at you. “Move, Tagora. I’m not paying you. It isn’t like you made this.”

“How do you know that? I might have made it while you were sleeping in, neglecting your duties. Some of us are actually good at our jobs, Tyzzie.” He sighs, looking at his claws and shining them on his lapel. “Three-fifty, because you’re rude to me.”

Another slow blink. What the fuck is this guy on? You’re so surprised by all this fucking attitude that you don’t respond for a solid ten seconds or so, staring into space just wondering what you did, cosmically speaking, to earn this shit. Maybe you’ve had like, multiple lives? Or not. Maybe Tagora is just that kind of sore-ass motherfucker. Everything you know about the guy points to it just being a predisposition of his, even if you never really had to deal with so much of the brunt of it before. You have no clue how that Xigisi guy can even stand him.

You bump his hip again, and then, when he doesn’t move, you pause, and push him to one side, grabbing that flip in his hair. No one is looking. He starts to say something, but clamps his jaw shut when you pull his head back, leading him out of the way. No one’s looking. You pull harder, stretching his neck out while you drag him back, and he slaps his hands over his mouth with a whine that definitely draws some looks. Good, he’s turning teal. So are you, but you’re focused on his face, the way he flushes down his neck, the slow way he bends his head back down even after you let go of his hair, his eyes wide and angry on yours. You want to kiss him, but he’s biting his lips.

And he’s, you know, Tagora. And he’s taken pitch. This isn’t anything. It’s just fun. You turn your head away from him, his bright teal face and hands flying to fix his hair, then his shirt, as he walks with those same quick, measured steps away from you, refusing to rush as he leaves the cafeteria. You ignore the eyes on your back and pour your coffee. You don’t flinch. You just bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to laugh out loud. This is so fucking good. You’re going to ruin him.

The rest of your breakfast is unexciting, with most everyone leaving you alone as soon as you sit down and those more desperate for gossip ones getting bored of your blank looks to leave you eating your vaguely fruit-flavored mash in peace. You finish eating, walk to your office, and start to work, and it goes almost silently, besides emails pinging on your computer. Tagora asks for one file, but it’s the bare minimum of wordage, for once. You reply with a wink, and send it through the tubes. He doesn’t contact you after that, but sends it back after it’s been notated in his careful, tight handwriting.

This is kind of nice. Even when he does lope past your open door, you watch him and he speeds up, his face going sour. This is actually really nice. You think this is the first night you go without him bothering you for nothing in almost a wipe of scheduled shifts, let alone the doubles you usually pull to have access to the system while you continue working on your less-than-legal pursuits. You almost miss him, at the end of your double shift, since you eat in your office and Tagora, presumably, has a more fancy and aesthetically pleasing way to gain nutrition than putting things in his mouth.

You really have to think before you… think. No, you need to just stop thinking about Tagora completely. It’s fun, messing with him, but you’re not going to do anything. He’s dating a blueblood, for fuck’s sake. If you started something with him, who knows how that fuck would make your life hell. Unless, you mean, he’s cool with it. Fleet meat, and all that.

Either way, you shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. You have work to do, and codes to make and transcribe for your definitely not illegal side work, and messages to send to Stelsa. You’re a busy troll! You don’t have time to think about Tagora on his knees, begging to suck your bulge. You’ve, in fact, never even thought of that, because you have better things to do than think about his lips. Obviously.

Like think about his ass. Or his horns. Or how he might sound if you slammed him against the wall and held him there by his throat.

You really just have to go to coon, this is getting ridiculous. You’ll take a shower and deal with your current situation (as long as no one is in the washblock when you are, then you have to deal with it in the coon and hope your blockmate isn’t around), but then you’re going to coon, and not thinking about Tagora.

That’s the plan. Don’t think about Tagora. Or at least, think about him just long enough to jack off, and then go to sleep and pretend it never happened. You’ll get over this, for sure. Or at least get to where you don’t have to deal with it like this. That would be enough for you, honestly.

When you wake up, you’d settle for just not dreaming about him. Because that’s fucking ridiculous. You take a long few minutes to wake up, laying in the slime with your eyes closed. You don’t have a shift tonight, so you don’t have to rush, but you don’t exactly want to just lay here the whole time. You could pick up an extra shift, or work on your own thing, which still means picking up a shift to have a good excuse to hole up in your office. That would be good, you think, having an excuse not to talk to or see anyone all night.

To start, you stumble out of coon, scrape the slime off, and wrap a towel around your waist to wander down towards the bathblocks, your flip-flops slapping against the hall as you go. The traffic in the hallways is less right about now, everyone’s basically gotten to work by now, since you got up a few hours later than usual. All you can hear is your footsteps echoing down the hall and the gentle hum of the ship as it goes, hurtling through space at ungodly speeds without any feeling on your end. It could be doing corkscrews and you probably wouldn’t know, with how well the gravity is regulated.Technology is amazing, you’re so over it.

The abulationsblock is abandoned and smells mildewy, with tiny walls separating the showerheads from each other. Your flip-flops squeak and squish as you walk in, little gross puddles of dirty water splashing until you reach the first showerhead and whip your towel off. The soap in the dispenser is full of something that smells like antiseptic and makes your skin sting, but you’re clean after using it, and forethought into bringing your own soap just isn’t your game. Tagora probably has some. You snicker to yourself as you scrub your hair, imagining him with a trolley of all his various shampoos, conditioners, and lotions. 

As you’re laughing to yourself like a crazy person, your pan wanders away from the LG-6 rated stuff like him tripping over the ends of his satin robe, and slips into imagining him dripping slurry as he leans on the wall, pressing two fingers into his nook and the other hand on his stomach to make his seedflap open and spill the slurry in him. Teal on teal. Bites on his thighs, his neck, his hair a mess. His lips swollen from biting. Making whiny noises from being so overstimulated he can barely hold himself up.

Your face between his legs, making a fucking mess. Pushing him over until he’s sobbing, until he can’t move, your taste and his stuck on your tongue.

Fuck. At least you’re alone in here, but even through all the steam and soap you can smell your own pheromones pouring off of you. Thank the clown gods for nights off, or you’d be being destroyed right now. Pervert in the showers. That’s just what you fucking need. 

You rinse off quickly, dry yourself as much as you absolutely need to, and then rush from the abulations to your block, slam the door (well, imagine yourself slamming it, it’s a hydraulic door and closes with a hiss), and throw on your fatigues. Extra shift. Just be safe about this. The ass-numbing shift sitting staring at words will keep your mind off of Tagora’s entire fucking deal. As you walk into your office, you put through the request for the shift and get approved (obviously; no one else wants to take extra work), and then you close yourself into your stacks of books and papers.

Not even a full hour passes before someone knocks three times, and then opens your door. And who could it be? Tagora. Glaring down at you. “You took an extra shift. I thought you might want to get some beauty sleep.” He says, plucking nonexistent lint off his cuff. You can only see him from the corner of your eye.

“I’m fine being ugly, thanks.” You say, not even looking up from your current stack of papers. You’re on a roll, just don’t look at him. With his stupid hair. And face. And chest that you want to bite. Fuck. Just don’t look at him. You’re fine. “What do you want, Tagora?”

His heels click as he shifts his footing. Is he nervous? If looks could kill, your desk would be melting under your stare. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. “I just. Noticed your door open and close, and was wondering if that little fucking gremlin had somehow snuck in, so I wanted to check, so I could kick her out, if I needed.” He says, and his heels click again. He sounds strained, almost.

“Well, it wasn’t, so you can leave. Now.” You say, signing the bottom of the page and setting your stack into the “OUT” slot on your desk, where they whoosh through the tubes to be processed. “Unless you needed something.”

Give him another few seconds. His heels click-click again, and you finally look up at him, biting your tongue to keep from smirking. He looks almost nervous, his customary hand-wringing seeming a little more harried than plotting, too fast maybe. You can smell him from here, cologne and hair product and, yeah, there under all of it, just barely, is his pheromones, wafting over to you from the door. He swallows and you stare at his mouth while he does, because you can feel him getting uncomfortable with you not talking. He shuffles again, and folds his hands behind his back.

“I didn’t, no. I just wanted to check on you, to see if you were still in some kind of fugue state, you know, grabbing my hair and the like.” He scoffs, and brushes his bangs aside with the backs of his fingers, casual. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that my hair is worth, in product alone, more than you could hope to repay with your sad stipend and whatever savings you scraped together before stumbling ass over teakettle onto this ship. Presumably barely out of coon.”

You flip to the next part of the file you have to annotate, and make a few notes before looking back up at him. “Why? You weren’t complaining. I could smell you wanting me to come over as soon as I walked in.” You can actually smell him now, though only faintly. Plus, he hasn’t exactly been rushing to get through this conversation. “And you keep finding reasons to get into my space.” Pretty safe to assume he’s at least kind of enjoying himself, considering there’s no reason at all he would be stuck here, talking to you.

“You’re making a lot of accusations, Entykk. I might even go so far as to claim slander.” He must be annoyed; his face is getting hot and he’s using legal terms somewhat incorrectly for the #drama of it all. He only gets  _ Law and Order  _ on you when he’s getting spiced about something. He walks over, but stops just before the corner of your desk, looking literally down his nose at you. “Do you even have anything to back that claim up?”

It falls quiet as you ignore him some more, the only noises the hum of the ship and your pen against paper, and after a moment, the sound of his annoyed foot tapping joins in, and only then do you look back up at him. You stare at him over the rim of your glasses, and slowly stand. You’re nearly the same height; teals generally come in one size, by your age. He meets your eye, the one that isn’t covered by his bangs, with a sneer, and you take a second to savor the tension.

Then, you grab him by the shirt and spin to shove him back against the wall with a nice thud. He yelps, his face getting hotter, and you push between his legs to get in his face, pressing against his chest with your fist. “You’re not complaining right now, for one.” When you lift your leg to jam your knee up against his nook through his pants, he makes a little noise, like you’re choking him and he’s gasping. “Does your highblood pitch know what you’re doing on here, Gor-Gor? Does Galekh have any idea that you’re fooling around with any troll willing to put you in your place?” Tagora whines. Actually whines. You can smell him so strongly that you taste it on your back molars. “Is he even aware of what a little slut he’s dating?”

Tagora’s claws skitter against the metal wall, and then grab your horns, and before you can even finish snarling at him, the timer on your computer dings, telling you your shift is over. You both look at it, like you’ve never heard that kind of thing before, let alone nightly, and you step back, let go of his shirt, and push his hands away. These offices are monitored; what were you thinking? And what if someone came in? The concept of being  _ caught  _ does make it fun, in a way, but you also know that being caught here would probably set back your admittedly meager savings in fines alone. You really need to control yourself better.

“If you can reserve a block for it, I might keep you company.” You say, and then hold a hand up at his complaints, not even looking at him as everything catches up to you and makes you teal to your hairline. “I know they’re busy. And I know they’re used by other people. A slut like you would probably like getting his face shoved into a slurry-soaked cushion.” He swallows, and you close your eyes, shivering a little at the pheromones soaking into your skin. “Get out before someone gets suspicious.”

Tagora steps away from the wall and straightens his clothes, but stops there. You make a motion like “what the fuck, get out?” and he glares, locking his hands behind his back in his usual stance, just this side of pissed enough to look at you with both eyes. He might even be trembling, but he’s perfectly silent for a good few seconds, just glaring at you while you pause in cleaning up after yourself so you can find fucking anything next time.

It's tense, just staring at him like you are. You feel like anyone caught in the space between you two would fry with how fiercely he's glaring. Your eyes barely leave his mouth; you want to kiss him, shove him into the wall and see what kind of noises he makes when he's really desperate. Even if you had been trying to hide it before, there's no going back now. You propositioned him, openly. You didn't even try to hide your intentions. You didn't  _ want  _ to hide them, you wanted to make him writhe, and clown gods did he. Now, instead of being even slightly satisfied, you just want more. You want him so overdone he's shaking in your arms, barely able to hold back his sobs, and then letting himself cry for you.

You didn't think you had it this bad.

“Tyzias. You can't just leave me like this.” He gestures, but vaguely, though you know what he means. Halfway to having a wiggly, riled up, annoyed. “You know the blocks are booked full. Until we  _ land.  _ Are you really willing to wait that long?” He strikes a subtle pose. “Just take me to your block. I’m sharing mine with a  _ cerulean. _ ”

His disdain is visceral, and you barely brush it off. “Mine’s with a cerulean, too, so we’re not doing that. Even if I could get her to fucking leave, my block is so cramped the coons are touching. It’s not an option.” You say, and stack your papers almost neatly before smoothing your hands down your shirt. “I mean, you’re just fucked unless you want me to slam you into a mop closet and fuck you on the floor.” The way you say it, so offhand, almost surprises you. You might be good at this yet, Zizi! Look out, maybe you’ll get a reaction--

Oh,  _ yes.  _ Tagora is sweating. He licks his lips, and they’re trembling. His hands fold in front of him, but he plucks at each claw nervously, and even his ears twitch. You want to kiss him. You want to kiss him so much it fucking hurts, so you take a deep breath, get in his face, and grab his wrist.

“If you insist, Gor-Gor.”

The hall is similarly empty now, because it’s about an hour after everyone else has mostly signed off, and whoever is still here has their doors closed, so you just drag him down the hall, scanning around corners before turning them and keeping close to the wall. There’s a janitor’s closet nearby, that almost never gets used. Even when it’s full, it’s almost empty, with a mop and some sponges the only things taking up any space. It’s dark, and locks from the inside, and perfect for his noisy ass. The door jiggles open and you throw him in, slamming the door closed and locked behind you before you turn the light on. He’s standing against the far shelf, maybe two feet from you, and you take a minute just to stare at each other.

This is happening, huh? You’re really doing this, Tyzias. You’re just going to step right into it. You’re doing this. You step into his space and kiss him, just lightly, just to get used to it. He smells good, and he kisses you back, his hands on your hips, just as tentatively, like you’re playing a joke on him. After a few more gentle, barely-there kisses, you bite his bottom lip, grab a handful of his hair, and lick into his mouth when he moans against yours.

His hair is less greasy than you expected, almost silky in your fingers, and when you tug it he moans. You shove your leg between his, and grind your thigh against him, the grip in his hair tight enough to pull his head back and expose his throat. Your other hand moves to fight at the buttons on his shirt, and you sink your teeth into his throat, growling while his knees almost buckle. He must be twice as desperate as you are, if that’s all it takes.

When Tagora's shirt finally pops open, you grope at his chest and shove his legs further apart. “I had no idea you were such a little slut, Gorjek. Practically begging me to pail you like that, moaning,” you pull his hair and grind your kneecap into his nook and he makes a pathetic noise. You bite his ear, and lower your voice as someone walks past. “Getting wet in a janitorial supply closet. You're pathetic.”

He opens his mouth to complain and you kiss him again, sucking his bottom lip as you push him to his knees. His mouth looks swollen, wet, soft, and you push your pants open and out of the way of your sheathe. “Eat.” His hair makes a good handle, and you grip it, leading him to your nook with his mouth open.

Is this the headspace thing you've heard so much about?

Tagora’s tongue presses against you first, warmer than the rest of him and right against your pleasurenub, and you huff out a sigh, meeting his eyes while he wraps his arms around your hips. He hums, his eyes finally sliding closed as he focuses on your nook, his hands tentatively groping your ass and his knees scooting closer while he works. You push his bangs off his face, hiking one knee up onto his shoulder to give him more access, because you’re not putting any part of yourself on this floor. No, you’ll leave crawling around on the floor for this guy.

“You’re pretty good at this. I bet that blueblood gets a lot of use out of your slutty mouth, huh, Gor-Gor?” You say, hoping that your voice pitching now and then doesn’t throw off the vibe you’re going for. Considering the moan that vibrates against your nub and the flush you feel in his cheeks against your thighs, you think you managed it. “You look so comfortable on your knees like that.”

He glares up at you while you smirk, but doesn’t stop moving his tongue, and your bulge starts to peek out. Before you can even give him an order, Tagora’s got his hand wrapped around what of your bulge has already slid out and is stroking it to slide it further out. You lean your head back, your knuckles pressing against his skull when you pull, dragging him up to mouth at your bulge and snarling softly. 

“Keep going. I might fuck you, if you’re good enough.” You breathe, and he moans, taking the tip into his mouth. You grip his hair tighter, and push him down the length of your bulge, groaning into your knuckles as he takes it without a single pause, his eyes meeting yours while his sharp nose presses against your pelvis. “That’s right, just like that.”

You sound… Kind of cheesy, honestly. Tagora doesn’t seem to mind, but you kind of internally cringe at that, and focus instead on lowering your other leg to have leverage to press the heel of your sneaker against his crotch. His bulge is out and writhes against the sole of your shoe, and he groans, his claws digging into your back and his hips twitching just barely against you. You realize the second time he tries to grind up that he’s holding you up, because you stumble slightly and he pulls you back forward. You need more practice at this, and that thought makes you snicker.

Considering how well this is already going, you might have to do it again sometime. Maybe you’ll be able to find somewhere a little more cushy, so you wouldn’t feel bad shoving him around much. You don’t want to actually  _ hurt  _ him, after all. You just want to act like you will.

Dragging him by his hair, careful that he has time to stand between tugs, you press his back against the rack of supplies behind him, kissing him hard and slow, like you’re his pitch and you’re scaring someone off from trying to go for him. He whines, and his claws dig into your back when you grab him through his pants, sucking at his tongue. He’s sensitive. Cute.

“Turn around.” You growl, biting his ear, and stroking him through his pants. He takes a second to respond, his eyes all distant, and you slap his cheek, just gently. “Hey. Turn around.”

Tagora nods, demure almost, and turns, leaning on the rack to perk his ass up when it faces you. You finally release his hair, even if it’s soft and you could pet it for hours, in favor of slapping his ass, hard, a few times. His pants soften it enough that he actually whimpers, pushing his ass out for more. The angle isn’t perfect, but you press up behind him, kissing his neck, and unbutton his pants. He grinds his ass back against you while you unzip them, taking your time to leave a messy hickey on his neck.

Then, though, you step back and take his pants and unders down in one swoop, and pull them off one of his feet to hitch his leg up on a lower shelf. He shudders, and you stroke his bulge between his thighs. His nook is wet, and while you’re touching him, it drips a spot of teal onto your wrist. You lean back over him and just trail your bulge over his nook, purring, while you shove two fingers into him, slow but hard, steady.

“You’re pushing back a lot. You must be so fucking desperate for my bulge, you spoiled little slut.” You breathe, against his ear, while he tries to muffle himself on the back of his hand. You drag your fingers out of him, slow enough that he follows your hand back a little ways, whining when your hips stop him and your bulge slicks over his nook. “Open your pretty mouth for me, since you love having something in it so much.”

He grumbles in protest, but drops his mouth open, his tongue lolling out, and you jam your teal-coated fingers into his mouth, pressing them against his tongue while he makes a muffled, offended noise. He wraps his tongue around your fingers, though, purring while he sucks at them.

You bite the back of his neck, and lean your forehead against his hair while you convince your bulge to press into him, at a slow, steady pace. “Don’t clench until I’m in, you fucking slut.” You command, and he whines, his thighs shaking, as you move, and his whole body seems to spasm when you bottom out, his nook doing it’s best to drag you in and his bulge dripping onto the floor. You wrap your arm around him to hold him still, and press your fingers against his nub, rubbing it in quick, sharp circles that make him twitch and nibble at your fingers with each warbling little moan he makes.

Tagora has no fucking right to be this cute. You bite his ear in reprimand, but he just presses back against you, making a muffled plea to just  _ move  _ already. You call him a selfish teal tart, and slap his ass as you move. He whines when you move, but once you finally pull your fingers out of his mouth, he moans for real, and slaps a hand over his lips to keep himself quieter. You almost wish someone would hear, just to watch the embarrassment on his pretty face. He’d be a wreck. He might even cry.

You’ll save that for yourself, actually. You don’t want someone else to see him cry.

No, for now you’re going to let yourself be possessive, yanking his hips back and wrapping a hand around the base of his bulge. This moment is yours, while the rest of your time belongs to your duties, self-assigned or otherwise. Tagora shudders, reaching back to hold your hip as you start to move. You start slow, shallow, giving him more than enough time to adjust, enough time that he grips at your hip with a kind of urgency, his head leaned as far down as the shelves will let him.

“Greedy. Your nook is trying to pull me in.” You breathe, and then bite his ear. “You’re such a needy slut. I had no idea, Gorjek. Does your pitchmate know?” You grind into him, taking a second to catch your breath before going on, working yourself up to a faster pace until he’s gasping with each movement. “Does Galekh know what a needy little slut he’s dating? So needy he couldn’t wait to use a block, he had to get fucked in a closet, with people walking by? Fucking desperate. You’re dripping for it.”

And he is, literally, his thighs are wet, and when you lean back to fuck him a little harder, you connect with a sticky slap that makes your ears twitch. If anyone was outside, they’d definitely be hearing this, hearing his desperate little noises and your growls and the way his body wants you. You yank his head back by his hair and he sobs a moan, slamming his other foot down to hold himself steady, and you use the hand that was on his bulge to muffle him, three fingers in his mouth. This is yours, this moment in time.

You pull him further, lifting his chest with a little effort, and he leans back against you heavily, his head on your shoulder while you bite his neck. You know better than to leave hickeys on a taken troll, but here you are, marking up his neck and earning wonderful little wiggles of his hips against you, his eyes closing. Cute. You spread his legs, pushing your legs between them, and he has to bend over, so you can slam into him again.

Since your arm is already there to hold him up, you slide your hand down to his nook, circling your fingers around his nub until you find the angle that makes him react best, gripping the shelves so hard his knuckles are almost white and shuddering gently. Sensitive. You’ll wonder later if he’s just not had a chance to take a private shower, or whatever he prefers, but for now, you’re enjoying it, taking a steadying breath before speaking to him again.

“Are you getting close? Doesn’t the thought of someone coming in make you have to think twice?” You’re teasing, but he whimpers, and you get your answer. “You like it, don’t you? The thought of someone coming in? Someone else seeing you like this, shaking and, and struggling to stand? Begging for my bulge like this?” You breathe, grabbing a hank of his hair and not slowing for a second. “You won’t get that. No one else gets to see you like this. If you want this, you come to me. Got it?”

Later on, he’ll definitely joke about how possessive you’re acting, but right now he just responds to it with a tiny nod, and then a husky whisper of your name, followed by a handful of agreeable noises as he presses himself back. He’s a lot noisier than you anticipated; for some reason, you thought his whole loudmouth never-shuts-up thing was inverted when he was getting fucked, but you guess that wouldn’t make much sense. He loves the sound of his own voice that much, why would he be quieter now that he’s getting off? Makes sense for him to be noisy, even if it’s not necessarily the best thing for a secret fucksesh in a closet.

Not that you’re not allowed to have sex, even outside of designated areas (a write up doesn’t mean much when you’re drafted into necessary service) but you don't exactly want everyone on the ship to get a snapshot of your ass from whoever might walk in, because you know well enough that the lack of entertainment means that everyone would see and hear about it from whoever stepped in. Better to err on the side of caution, and so you grab his horn and yank his head back to kiss him, muffling him pretty effectively.

His voice gets more breathy; not higher, exactly, but more gasping and light, his claws sinking into the shelf and his ears twitching down and back. He gasps against your mouth when you dig your claws into his chest, his nook fluttering, and you suck on his bottom lip as you pull back to speak to him, stuffing three fingers into his mouth so you don’t have to stop moving.

“You’re such a desperate fucking slut, aren’t you? I barely started and you’re shaking.” You pinch his grubscar and he shudders, nodding, his eyes half-lidded and distant until you press a claw into his tongue. Then, he huffs, and grinds back against you. “You’re so agreeable like this. Maybe someone should stuff something up your nook all the time to keep you out of those pissy moods of yours, huh, Gor-Gor?”

Tagora whines around your fingers again, the flush across his cheeks getting warmer, and you press your face into his neck. Fuck. You’re not going to last, and from the way Tagora is shaking in front of you, he isn’t either. You didn’t think that far ahead, to have something to catch the mess, and looking around only brings a kind of musty scourdray to your attention. It’s…. Gross. The idea of slurry in a scourdray is uncomfortably degrading, but you didn’t exactly bring your bucket, and even if you did you wouldn’t exactly be laying it out on a pillow for him to use. You have standards, and paperwork, to think of when it comes to that.

So, you snatch the scourdray by the handle and drag it over, taking your fingers from his mouth to hold his hip. He claps his hands over his mouth, leaning heavily back against your chest. You bite the side of his neck, wrap your arm around him fully, and let yourself fall out of rhythm. He’s shaking by the time you pull your teeth out of his neck, his ears tilted down and his mouth hanging open behind his hands.

“Are you so, uh, so much of a fucking slut you’re not even, even  _ phased  _ by the fact that you’re about to spill in a ff, fucking scourdray?” You mumble, and he whines, high and sharp, as he spills, his eyes rolling back and everything. It’s like something out of an East Alternian Adult animation, and it’s surprisingly hot to know that you did that to him. “You’re pathetic, Gorjek.”

He shudders, dropping one hand to stroke his bulge, aiming it amicably into the scourdray. The sound makes your ears burn, and you’re sure there must be someone listening to both of you panting over the sounds of  _ something  _ being filled. Tagora falls forward again as he comes, twitching, and you rock his hips back against yourself with each movement, too concerned with the way he twitches around you to worry anymore about the sound your skin connecting makes, or the mess you’re about to make.

“If you t-take all of it, I’ll give you a reward.” You breathe, and he nods. “I can’t hear your head rattle, Gor-Gor. Speak up. Do you, hah, want a reward?”

He nods again, shivering gently. “Yes, please, please.” He must be getting over-sensitive, but you can’t help yourself wanting to make him even more sensitive, even weaker in the knees.

Besides, that scourdray is already almost overflowing, you’re not trying to push your luck.

Your movements get more jerky, harder and less in sync with him twitching back, and your breathing gets harsher. He shakes in your hold, his bulge squirming against your thigh, and you spill in him with a snarl fit for any pitch pailvid, one that shakes your thorax and has him chirping a submissive response. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, grinding against him as you fill him. Gorjek wriggles his hips, pressing his ass against your hips and adjusting his stance to keep from dripping too much of your material on his clothes.

Even so, his clothes are probably ruined, from the way you feel his thighs shaking with your last few weak thrusts. He follows you back when you pull away from him, and you swat his ass. “Good job, Gorjek. Want your reward?” You’re out of breath, but he still sounds submissive and gentle when he responds.

“Please.” He doesn’t move, his eyes distant, and that’s fine. You kiss the back of his neck, a quick, spotty path down his spine, over one of his hips to bite, and he purrs, stretching his touchfronds out like a cat, his ears twitching. You kiss his ass, his thighs, one and then the other, and push his legs apart. “ _ Please. _ ”

His nook tastes like you, initially, and he shudders, pressing back while you work on him. Even when he stands still, his nook is fluttering, sensitive and hot, and you moan against him, feeling the little twitches along the backs of his thighs grow into jolts and shudders, and even though his bulge is tucked back in his sheathe, you can smell his orgasm on the way. He’s shaking, biting the meat of his arm so hard you’re worried he might bleed, his knees weak (you’d love to hold him up, but you can’t), wobbling, and with a muffled, barely-audible sob of a moan, he comes again.

You don’t stop, though. You keep going, through the shuddering, his little aftershocks, him jerkily rocking against your mouth and even follow him when he pulls up, his noises oversensitized and sharp, almost painful-sounding. He pushes at your horn weakly, shaking so hard you’re surprised the shelves are holding, and finally speaks. 

“S, Tyz, Tyzias.” He gasps, shoving your horn hard enough it actually hurts a little. “Stop. Fuck. Stop.”

There you go. “If you say so. Are you all tired out?” You stand up, and immediately wince at the soreness in your hips, back, and stomach. Why did no one tell you this was so much work? You should have laid down somewhere, it’s easier that way. You pull up his pants for him, and he huffs a breath, fastening the button again. “Want me to walk you to your block?”

As he mulls it over, you put your clothes back in order, and help him button his shirt up, because he’s still kind of shivery and limp. Cute. You eventually decide for him, because he’s just flushing and adjusting his shirt, like that’ll fix the wrinkles, to walk him back. The next shift has definitely started, so you’re beyond hoping you don’t get seen, but you tell him it should be fine anyway.

He loops an arm around your shoulders, and you wrap one around his waist, peer out the cracked door to check for any oncoming traffic, and tiptoe out, as much as you can. Damn his click-clacky shoes. Ridiculous. At least everyone seems to be in their offices, but you can’t help wincing every time he sets his foot down too hard. A few people pass, but they’re talking among themselves, and even though you can see the moment they realize what they’re smelling is pheromones, you’re dragging him along faster than they can get to you.

This is the longest walk to the restpite quarters you’ve ever had, but you make it, and stop outside of Tagora’s room to let him key in the code. Luckily, his blockmate is out, doing whatever ceruleans do in their spare time, so you can drag him inside and peel him out of his clothes. He, of course, complains the entire time, but you do it anyway, down to his socks, because you feel kind of bad thinking of actually leaving him to deal with himself. You’re not  _ that much  _ of an asshole, are you? You hope not.

Once he’s undressed, you pour him into his coon, arranging him with his head resting on the membrane pillow and splashing some slime over his chest to really get him relaxed. You pause, then, and pat his chest. 

“You okay, Tagora?” You don’t want him not to be. He doesn’t look distant, which is good, but he looks tired. “Need anything?”

He huffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you. But if you could put the clothes you so helpfully ruined into the laundrifier, I would appreciate it.” He sniffs, and settles himself slowly while you gather the sticky mess of his stuff and shove it into the laundrifier, and then stand in the middle of the room. “And. Tyzias.” He waves one hand out of the slime, beckoning you over, and won’t meet your eyes. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Yeah, right.” You snort. “Who would I tell? Mutually assured destruction, Sore-Gor. If you don’t need anything else, I’m gonna go clean up.” You say, and he grabs your wrist as you turn. You stare at him, again being reminded of the anime club you declined joining, and the things they no doubt watched, as you look at him. And then you kiss him, very gently, very slowly, and he purrs, and kisses you back. “Get some sleep.”

He shrugs, dropping his hand back into the slime. “Whatever. You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyyy, teal on teal action!


End file.
